Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “I suppose,” added Wetherell, dressed in another outlandish combination of colours and collars, “if one enjoys that sort of thing, tramping about the county in the society of vagabonds.”

  Emily swung toward him. “Really, sir, you should leave your club in St. James’s Street more frequently; you might be surprised to learn that your compatriots are not all hoydens and heathens.”

  Wetherell’s response was to crouch before the music room mirror to pinch his cheeks and articulate his complaints. “I don’t like these country hours that Mother and Father keep for their meals. In town we eat dinner at 8:00, sometimes 9:00, and then enjoy a late supper after playing cards.”

  Uncle Clarence brought the attention back to Emily. “And how’s young Mr. Walby?”

  It was Fleda who piped up. “He’s very well, Your Royal Highness! So affable! And he tells such stories!”

  “All seamen have such stories to tell,” he grinned. “I’ve quite a reputation myself as a spinner of yarns, though I’d be given the boot for recounting them in mixed company. Now tell me, Emeline, is Mr. Walby raring to return to sea?”

  “The first chance he gets!”

  “As what? A swabber?” asked Wetherell. “The boy is misshapen!”

  “He is not! He’s a midshipman,” said Fleda, rising on her heels.

  Wetherell made some unintelligible remark and returned to the mirror for further adjustment. Fleda looked up eagerly at Somerton. “Mr. Walby is staying at the coaching inn down the road while Dr. Braden is visiting his sick cousin. Could he stay with us, Brother? Please? I’ve never had a friend my own age, and he’s such fun.”

  Deep, ugly lines furrowed Somerton’s brow. “Your mother is not at all happy with you, Fleda, neglecting your lessons to spend time with this Mr. Walby.” He finished with a darting glance at Emily.

  “Mother is never happy! If I were to wear my hair in the style of Mrs. Fitzherbert and play flawless tunes on the pianoforte, she would still find fault,” she lamented before grabbing Somerton’s arm in earnest. “Please, Brother? I could share my meals with him in the schoolroom, and we shall promise to stay out of sight.”

  Uncle Clarence leaned over to whisper in Emily’s ear. “Who is this tiny witch?”

  “She’s a sprite, not a witch!”

  “I don’t believe I’ve met her before.”

  “You have, Uncle, I introduced you to her in my bedchamber the evening of the ball.”

  “Yes, yes! But who is she? I’ve quite forgotten.”

  “I shan’t tell you again; she’s your friends’ youngest child.”

  Uncle Clarence looked terribly puzzled as he finished his wine, but was soon diverted by the appearance of Glenna McCubbin, who had come to inform them all that the roast o’ beef was ready to be delivered to the table, and that the duke and duchess were awaiting their presence in the dining room. Scurrying up to the housekeeper, he groped for her hand to kiss it. “My dear Miss McCubbin! Will you do me the honour and save a dance for me at the next Hartwood ball?”

  Glenna blushed with the heart-pumping surprise of securing the attentions of such an exalted gentleman. “Lud! On my arthritic ankles? And where will I be goin’ when Her Grace dismisses me, and throws me out on the road to be ravished by the highwaymen?”

  Wetherell had successfully pulled himself away from the mirror in time to witness the Duke of Clarence’s wanton display of affection for Miss McCubbin. “There now!” he said drolly, giving Emily a rare direct glance. “If that isn’t evidence that the royal apple doesn’t fall far from the tree of Hanover, I don’t know what is.” Then, taking her by surprise, he linked arms with her to lead her to supper. As they journeyed to the dining room, he licked his lips and said, “You will play cards with us again soon, won’t you, Your Royal Highness? I’m a heap of rapturous shivers just thinking about it.”

  26

  Friday, August 27

  8:00 a.m.

  (Morning Watch, Eight Bells)

  Aboard HMS Amethyst

  Fly sat opposite Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington in the great cabin, watching the two relish their breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and bacon, his anxiety so devastating this morning that he could swallow nothing more than coffee. Behind the relaxed eaters rain pelted the galleried windows, and the mournful sea beyond abounded in bobbing whitecaps.

  “I’m rapidly tiring of this chase, Mr. Austen,” said Prickett, wiping his hands on his linen napkin, which, stuffed into the open neck of his shirt, resembled a coarse-looking tucker. “The men have been at their battle stations for almost two days now, and seen no action.”

  “Gentlemen, not all battles are fought and won in the space of an afternoon.” Fly pulled his chair closer to the table. “We have the two ships in sight again this morning; they’re now but a few hours away.”

  “Do they continue to sail close to one another?”

  “Nay, there’s presently a wide expanse between them.”

  Bridlington started fretting. “Mr. Austen, we cannot go chasing after every sail we see. How much longer must we keep this up?”

  “Until we are quite certain we can be of no assistance.”

  “I shall be a force to be reckoned with, Mr. Austen, if they should both prove to be our friends,” said Prickett, jabbing his knife in the air at him.

  “At the very least, it is obvious both are not His Majesty’s ships.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Fly suppressed a laugh. “If they are, sir, they have a strange way of showing their regard for one another.”

  Prickett pursed his lips. “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right.

  “Unless, of course, they have no idea who the other is, which is not unreasonable. It wouldn’t be the first time ships of the same navy have inadvertently taken broadsides at one another.” Fly forced a smile. “Think how overjoyed you shall feel if one of them proves to be the Lady Jane.”

  “Very well then, but you must promise me to take down our ensign and flags — at least until we know what and who we’re up against.”

  Fly nodded in assent, not in the least surprised by the captain’s request, remembering all too well the day Prickett had concealed the markers of the Amethyst’s country of origin from a distraught Captain Moreland.

  “Oh, my goodness me!” said Prickett suddenly, as if he had just noticed he was wearing no trousers. “And what of this dead body we found yesterday? What have you discovered of him?”

  It was on Fly’s lips to inquire why the captain had been absent from the quarterdeck when the corpse had been brought on board. “He was one of the sailors who went with Dr. Braden and Biscuit in the skiff to rescue Magpie.”

  Prickett shook his head with gravity. “Then it is confirmed, Mr. Austen; your friends are lost.”

  “Not necessarily, sir. Several of us have examined the body. The man has not been long dead.”

  “But as he was floating in the sea, I suppose the others are as well.”

  Fly closed his hands around his coffee mug. “Just now we made a most astonishing discovery.”

  “Oh, what could be more astonishing than discovering a dead man on the sea?”

  “There was a gold watch on the body, sir. Mr. Evans recognized it as belonging to Biscuit. We all thought it exceedingly odd until we opened it up and found a message on a strip of muslin.”

  “How extraordinary!” Bridlington exclaimed. “Did our men have a pen and ink on them when they jumped into the skiff?”

  Prickett rolled his eyes at his second-in-command in such a dramatic fashion, Fly was positive the man could make a thriving second career as a thespian in pantomimes. “It was written in blood, using a toothpick or a splinter of wood.”

  “Blood!” Bridlington shrank back in his chair.

  “For God’s sake, what was the message?” asked Prickett.

  “As of August twenty-fourth, they were alive. It ended with a plea to find them.”

  “Good Lord! How long can a body go withou
t food?”

  “I’ve known men to exceed two weeks, though they were very near death when found.”

  Prickett and Bridlington went quiet, trying to digest a scenario of starvation.

  “With your permission, sir, I’d like to place more men on watch.”

  Prickett blinked at Fly until his meaning became clear. “We are not sailing on Lake Windermere.”

  “No — no we are not,” was Fly’s quiet reply. “Still, I feel it’s not an impossibility.”

  9:00 a.m.

  At Sea

  When the rain let up, Leander tugged the sheltering jacket from his face and pulled one of the old biscuit pails toward him, elated to find it half-full of fresh water. Not certain he possessed the strength to lift it to his sunburned lips, he dipped his hands into the precious drink and brought it to his mouth, wishing it would extinguish the stabbing cramps of hunger. Squeezing his eyes shut to await their passing, he prayed — when he opened them again — he would find a school of fish squiggling in the many inches of rainwater that swirled about the skiff’s bottom. But no, he found only the tangle of legs belonging to his mates, their upper bodies concealed under various articles of sodden clothing, with the exception of the coxswain, who still held the cordage of their square sail tightly in one hand, still navigating, though whether he too had died in the night Leander could not be certain. Had he been too hasty in slipping the dead sailor over the side a few days back?

  Reaching around to grab hold of the gunwales, he hoisted his head up to resume the heart-wrenching business of searching for sails, cursing his lack of a telescope or a voice with which to awaken Biscuit to ask if the cook could see anything in the distances; yet search he must. Yesterday they had spotted two ships, had come close to them even — though, tragically, not close enough for the lookouts to spot their puny sail or hear their unison of desperate calls, “Ahoy, ship, ahoy!” And the firing of guns, which had initially led them in their direction had ceased long ago, though when exactly Leander could not recall, for his mind was muddled. How long they had been adrift he did not know; when they had tasted their last morsel of salted pork, he could not say.

  Exhausted by the effort of hooking his arms over the side of the skiff, he listened to the waves nudging the hull and rested his head to remember the last time he had seen Emily. If nothing else, his memory of her was still clear and bright and tangible. The sunlight of that early July morning illumined and comforted his mind: there she was, dressed in sailors’ trousers, sitting on the mizzentop of her uncle’s ship, the Impregnable, her gold hair flying behind her like a pennant, her arm raised to wave farewell.

  “You will come back to me, Emily?”

  “I will, as soon as I can.”

  “You won’t forget this poor doctor on the seas?”

  “How could I forget the man that introduced me to rum and laudanum?”

  “I’ll be waiting, watching every sail on the horizon, for your return.”

  “As will I, Doctor.”

  He stayed in that peaceful position, no longer caring or able to lift his head to search for sails. It was a lovely memory; one he would not relinquish, even if life were to leave him.

  11:00 a.m.

  (Forenoon Watch, Six Bells)

  Aboard HMS Amethyst

  The guns had resumed an hour ago, just as the Amethyst was closing in. Excitement had been mounting ever since — the men, with the exception of Lord Bridlington, were itching for a fight. For a time their voices had echoed with songs and boasts of bravado; they had even made love to Mrs. Kettle while she lumbered about taking in her laundry, the woman revelling in the men’s attentions, showing off her stovepipe ankles and making obscene gestures with her hips. Now, as the two ships rose up before them, they stood rooted at their stations, beads of sweat on their lips, fingers twitching on muskets and matches, cartridges of gunpowder, dirks and pikes and cutlasses; their emotions locked away in silent, watchful stares.

  Fly had command of the guns on the larboard fo’c’sle and quarterdeck, although he was prepared to perform a double duty if need be, for Bridlington was doing nothing to inspire confidence. Wandering well beyond the fifteen guns under his command on the starboard side — quite as if he were afraid they might be turned upon him at any moment — the first lieutenant was bouncing a curled knuckle against his mouth, talking to himself like a lunatic. Fly held his fists firmly to his sides to keep from grabbing his hair in clumps. Striving to ignore Bridlington, he made a mental check of the Amethyst’s preparedness, his eyes scanning decks and yards and masts and men. On the foretop, Magpie was sitting on his haunches behind the cracking fore topsail, his glass still raised in unshakeable concentration like a wooden figurehead whose painted eyes were forever fixed upon the sea. At intervals on the weatherdecks, stationed at the rails between the guns and their crews, were the men whom Fly had rounded up, equipped with a spyglass, and instructed to sound the alarm should they see anything out of the ordinary being borne along in the sea currents. To Morgan Evans, who now stood among them, he had quietly said: “We shall kiss the dice, and throw them one last time.”

  Captain Prickett had wriggled into his uniform, his black bicorne athwartships on his head, and was ambling along the larboard gangway, though a little shaky on his feet. With a mixture of consternation and amusement, Fly looked on as the captain periodically stooped to peer into the barrel of a carronade, or juggled a twelve-pounder in his hands, or clapped a poor, unsuspecting sailor on the back, all the while letting fly an interspersion of orders. “More damp sand is needed around this gun. Bring it at once! Those cannonballs are rusty. Take them away! They must be scraped and greased before used! You there, watch your gunpowder! I’ll not have my ship blowing up today, and all of us sitting in the sea!” Beside the Amethyst’s bell, Prickett drew himself up, robbed the sailing master of his speaking trumpet, and let his voice bellow round the decks: “Lads! You’re to wait ’til we see what this ruffle is all about. I’ll hang the man who screams, lights his cannon, or spews his bullets before I give the word.”

  Holding his hat against the wind, Prickett came toward Fly and took him aside. “Anything yet, Mr. Austen?”

  “Neither ship is flying her colours.”

  “Damn! How dare they utilize my own form of trickery! Well, can you see anything of their hulls?”

  “Not yet. There’s too much smoke to give us a clear picture.”

  “What about their size?”

  “I believe it’s safe to say they are not men-of-war. Both are two-masted, and tacking easily, though one seems to have more guns at her disposal.”

  “If we cannot see their flags, how shall we discover who they are, Mr. Austen?”

  Fly calmly stated the obvious. “We’ll have to come in closer still, at least until we can determine something from the sails and rigging and uniforms, or —” he paused for effect “— or see the ships’ names.”

  “Closer? What, and get caught up in their fray?”

  “Aye, if necessary,” said Fly, clenching his jaw. “That was the idea.”

  Prickett ran his hand over his damp brow, wiped it on his breeches, and then began expelling his breath in a most bizarre manner.

  “May I get you a glass of water, sir?”

  “Do not put yourself out, Mr. Austen,” he said loudly, pulling at his top buttons to loosen his jacket. “I shall get it myself. Do not worry, I shan’t be gone long.” He handed Fly the speaking trumpet as if he were presenting his sword to a victorious enemy, and then spoke sotto voce: “When we’re within range of those ships’ carronades and long guns, whatever you do, kindly remember our masts were weakened in the storm.” Executing a crisp about-turn, he marched toward the companionway — the thunder of convergent guns hastening his journey — and disappeared below deck.

  Standing alone, Fly peered through the swirling smoke at the battling ships. They warred as if they were alone on the water, oblivious to the imposing ship-of-the-line closing in on them, ready to add her b
roadsides to the action. If only he could look up and see Captain Moreland striding across the quarterdeck toward him, prepared to stand and lead with him. But he could see only faces lined with anxiety, looking to him, waiting for him to tell them what to do. Heaving a sigh, he sought out Morgan Evans, and told him he could stand down. “Should we get involved in this fight, your services shall be needed elsewhere, presumably patching holes in our hull, or — dare I say it — in the hospital again.”

  Morgan collapsed his spyglass so he could bring his fist to his forehead in a salute. “Thank you, sir. I’ll go collect Magpie from the top, and tell him to get below.”

  “Good luck with that!” Fly snickered. “But before you go, Mr. Evans, tell me first: what’s your assessment of it all?”

  Morgan sniffed the smoky air. “Two privateers, sir; a brig and a schooner; neither one interested in abandoning the fight, despite our approach.” He looked squarely at Fly. “I can say with confidence that neither one is the Lady Jane.”

  Both men had set their sights once again on the ships when the Amethyst’s brooding silence was shattered by a high-pitched shriek. At first Fly thought the livestock had broken free of their stalls and found their way on deck, but when every man around him looked toward the soaring length of the foremast — including an ashen-faced Bridlington, who had come scurrying over as if the sudden squeal had shaken his brittle nerves — he shaded his face with his hand to follow their gaze. There on the foretop, Magpie was dancing a jig.

  “What’re you on about, Magpie?”

  “Sir! I see him! He’s runnin’ ’round his ship, jumpin’ on the bowsprit and swayin’ on the capstan like he always does, doin’ a great deal o’ yellin’, his face all hot and ruddy.”

  Fly looked bewildered. “Could you be more precise, Magpie?”

  “Yon ship, the one what’s downwind, sir, I just knows it … it’s Prosper Burgo and his Remarkables.”